


A Hot December's Morning.

by sagelabyrinth



Series: Bile and Panic, the Holden Ford experience. [2]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Panic Attacks, heat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 14:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21198947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagelabyrinth/pseuds/sagelabyrinth
Summary: It shouldn't be hot. It really shouldn't be hot. It's December eighth, it snows in December, it always snows in December, but it's hot.





	1. Chapter 1

It shouldn't be hot. It _really _shouldn't be hot. It's December eighth, it snows in December, it _always _snows in December, but it's hot.

He and Bill were on the way to Reidsville, Georgia to interview a man named Skipp Collins. Holden found the name ridiculous, like a show host he'd watch as a kid, but his crimes were anything but.

Skipp Collins had bound women with duct tape, jabbed their eyes out, and discarded them like trash. It was hardly the most gruesome set murders they'd seen, but it rattled both Bill and Holden.

It had been a month since the Louie Kaplan interview, and Holden's ideal way to cope was avoidance. Every so often, for a few days after the interview, Bill would check up on him. It was nice, extremely nice, but Holden found it annoying. He just wanted to _forget,_ _move on, keep it together._

The plane ride made Holden a bit more anxious than they'd ever made him before, so he popped a Valium in his mouth. He'd _finally seen_ the psychiatrist that Wendy had recommended so he could refill his 'script.

The psychiatrist was a nice lady by the name of Mollie Leopold, _Doctor Leo for short, _she'd say. Doctor Leo had a small office with a terribly uncomfortable mustard couch. The texture of the couch was scratchy, Holden didn't care for it at all.

In his session with her, she asked basic questions, _why did you come to see me, does your anxiety give you trouble sleeping, how often do you get panic attacks, etcetera, etcetera, _then gave him a refill on Valium.

It wasn't as bad as Holden had been expecting, honestly. He'd had a preconceived notion that head shrinkers were just in it for the money, that they didn't care about who they were seeing, which was ironic since Holden technically _was _a head shrinker; but he had a good experience.

The two agents landed at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport at ten-fifty-one pm, and it was a three-hour drive to Reidsville, so they got a hotel room near the airport. Nothing too extravagant, just a small two-bedroom with a big shower and television.

Holden was excited to take shower, it had been a full day since he'd been able to, and the humidity of Georgia, even in December, made Holden sweat.

They awoke the next morning and got breakfast, Holden wasn't much of a breakfast guy, but Bill certainly was.

"Eggs, scrambled, two sausages, hash browns, grits, toast, and a black coffee, please." After Bill had rattled off his substantial order, he looked expectantly to Holden.

"Uh, just some toast, please, jam too."

The waitress wrote down the orders and told them she'd have "out in a jiff".

"You eat like a fuckin' bird," Bill remarked, "wouldn't kill ya' to eat some meat in now and then."

"Aw, it's good to know you care," Holden retorted sarcastically.

Bill chuckled heartily, "Okay, what do we know about this guy Collins, huh?"

"Skipp Collins, forty-two, a banker born and raised in Reidsville, wife, two kids, perfect white picket fence life." Holden explained, pulling a case file out of his bag.

"Perfect except for the fact he brutally murdered four women. He ever say why?"

"'Dumb bitches got what they deserved.'"

"How lovely..." said Bill. He rubbed the bridge between his eyes and sighed.

"You okay?" Holden asked.

"Yeah, yeah, headache."

"You've been getting a lot of those. Maybe you should cut-down on cigarettes."

Bill shot a death glare to Holden, "How on _Earth _do those correlate?"

"Nicotine is a vasoactive substance. That means it changes the size of blood vessels in your brain, and that **can cause headache**." Holden sounded like he was an encyclopedia. Spilling out facts like he was talking about the weather.

The weather that made Holden's suit sick to his skin, the weather that made it hard to breathe because the air was so thick, the weather that did _not _belong in December.

"You memorized all that?" Bill asked he was more in awe of Holden knowing that whole speech, than he was annoyed for him bringing it up. 

"Okay, here are your eggs, two sausages, grits, hash browns, coffee, and toast." the waitress replayed the orders as she set all items down. "Will that be all for yo-- Oh my god!" she screamed.

Holden and Bill both flinched at the sudden outburst. Bill followed the waitress' gaze and saw the opened file on the table. A picture of a woman with her eyes gouged out was displayed.

"Shit," Bill muttered.

It took Holden a second to fling the file back into his bag, "I'm so sorry! We're FBI, it's a case we're working on!" he tried to reassure.

The waitress was white as a sheet when she walked away. Holden groaned into his hands.

"Way to go, Einstein." 

After the meal, the pair finished the rest of the three-hour drive and got to Georgia State Prison. It was only twelve-twenty, ten minutes before they were supposed to arrive, but they went in anyway. The Warden guided them to a small room with three chairs and a metal table. Two chairs sat next to each other, closest to the door, and the other one sat across from them.

Holden used the spare time to set up the recorder, making sure it was in complete working order when Collins came in. They waited their ten minutes, but still no Skipp Collins in sight.

"He doesn't wanna take visitors anymore." announced the Warden as he walked in.

"What?" Bill and Holden both asked in unison.

"Sorry, fellas."

"We'll wait. He's going to talk to us today." Bill stated in a gruff voice. His expression was stone cold. He was talking to Skipp Collins today whether the guy wanted to, or not.

The Warden sighed and said he'll see what he can do.

Holden's heart started to pick up its pace, his breathing hitched slightly too.

"Hey, keep it together, nothing's wrong." Bill assured.

There were those words again,_ keep it together. _He was. He was trying. _Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong. _He repeated those words to himself. Unexpectedly, there was a sharp pressure on left side. Bill was pinching him, bringing him back to reality.

He looked to the older man with a perplexed look.

"Well, I'm not hugging you here," he muttered, "this has the same effect."

Just before Holden was about to say something, Skipp Collins and two guards walked in. Skipp had no record of violence in the prison, so the agents asked the guards to remove his shackles.

Skipp looked grateful, and a bit shocked, at the gesture. The guards left and Holden pressed record on the tape recorder as soon as Skipp sat down.

"Mr. Collins, my name's Holden Ford, this is my partner, Bill Tench. We're from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Behavioral Science Unit ." Holden started the interview this time. After a while of Bill starting them off, Holden was getting "whiny". Bill's words. Though Holden swears he wasn't whining.

"Skipp." He simply said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Skipp, not Mr. Collins. Mr. Collins was my father." Skipp reiterated.

Holden made an 'ah' expression and carried on, "Well, Skipp, as I said, we're with the Behavioral Science Unit. We've been conducting interviews with men, such as yourself, to help gain... Insight to your violent crimes."

"Men such as myself? You mean killers?" Skipp asked. He didn't have the typical Georgia accent. You could tell he grew up here, but he sounded more northern.

"Yes."

Skipp chuckled slightly.

"What's so funny?" asked Bill.

"Nothing, nothing, just... A whole unit of the F.B.I dedicated to sicko's like me."

"You think you're a sicko?" Holden inquired, Bill gave him an odd look for that one.

"Well, I am, aren't I? I took women into my back shed and gouged out their eyeballs. I'd say that's pretty sick."

Holden went quiet. His anxiety picked up again. Bill saw it coming and took over, "Why did you kill those women, Skipp?"

"I felt like it. See, when I was a kid, it was animals. My neighbor's dog, Kelly was her name, was always running 'round our yard. So one day, I took my pellet gun and shot her. She went down faster than a fat chick on a water slide," Skipp stopped to share a laugh at his own wit, "she laid there, whimpering, bleedin', so I took her out the woods and strangled her. Now, I couldn't tell you why, but it felt _good._"

The agents stared at the man who was first reluctant to see them, but now can't help but share his first "conquest".

Holden gulped dryly, "Did you have a happy childhood?"

"Yes, sir, plenty happy. Mom and Dad both worked, so I was lonely sometimes, but I had friends around town. Parents were always home by nine o'clock to tuck me in, though. Every night."

"What'd your parents do?"

"Dad was a pharmacist, Mom was a school nurse."

"You keep saying 'was', are they dead now?" Bill questioned.

"Yes, sir. Mom died when I was seventeen, Dad died 'bout two years ago."

"How?"

"Dad had a heart attack, Mom offed herself."

Holden perked up at that, "Really? Why?"

Skipp shrugged, "Guess she wasn't happy, can't say I blame her, though."

"Why's that?"

"The world's a dark, dark place, Agent Ford. People die, get killed, people rape, get raped, shit's scary. All I know is, I was jealous she took the easy way out."

"Why didn't _you_?" Bill asked. Holden shot him a weird glare, which he ignored.

"Had my whole life 'head of me. Even if the world's scary, I wanted to stick around and see it play out."

The interview concluded with more questions about the murders, which Skipp answered truthfully, and he left the two agents with a polite farewell.

After getting their guns back, they left. Stepping outside after being inside of a nice, cold, air-conditioned building sent a wave of shock throughout Holden's body. The air was thick and sticky, the sun beat down onto the concrete, making the heat rise and add on to the unbearable-ness.

Holden was breathing heavy by the time they got five minutes up the road.

"What's your problem?"

Holden continued to breathe heavily, he felt a lump in his throat build. 

"Holden?"

"Pull over." he said quietly.

"What?" Bill barely heard the younger man.

"Pull the fuck over!"

Bill slammed on the brakes and pulled off to the grass. Holden opened the door and quickly flung himself onto his knees on the grass. He gagged. He gagged over and over until his stomach muscles ached.

Holden flopped onto his back, his lungs felt small, the air was so thick, the sun burned his eyes.

"Holy shit, what the fuck's wrong with you?" the concern in Bill's voice was evident. He knelt down next to Holden and put a hand on his chest, "Kid, you have to calm down."

Holden didn't hear him, though. His head was pounding. His suit was constricting, he was so hot. His skin felt like it would boil off.

"Kid, can you hear me?"

The sun was so harsh. 

"Holden?"

His mouth was dry, his clothes stuck tightly to his skin.

"I'm calling 911."


	2. A Dead Man's Skin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden awoke to a familiar scene. A hospital room, hooked up to a heart monitor, and an IV trailed up his arm and into his vein.

Holden awoke to a familiar scene. A hospital room, hooked up to a heart monitor, and an IV trailed up his arm and into his vein.

"Wakey, wakey, sunshine." Bill called out through Holden's foggy mind.

Pathetically sitting himself upright, Holden groggily stringed together a sentence, "Did I... Have a panic attack?" he asked confusedly.

Bill tsk'd, "Heat stroke. Congrats, kid. You've successfully made your body attack itself on all ends of the spectrum."

Holden lightly groaned in response. His head was aching, though the cool temperature of the room helped.

Not long after waking, a nurse came in to check his vitals. Slightly dehydrated, but extremely_ less _dehydrated than when he first came in. 

"Alright, kid. Just spoke to the doc, you can go in about an hour. But drink more water," Bill shoved a bottle to him, "okay?"

"Okay," Holden replied taking a big gulp of the liquid, "I-" he tried to offer an apology for all the trouble he'd caused Bill, but the older man cut him off.

"You really fucking worried me, Ford."

A beat passed between them. Neither man spoke after that statement was uttered. Holden felt guilty and slightly embarrassed, he knew Bill only referred to him as "Ford" when he _really _pissed him off.

"I'm sorry." he hung his head.

"I'm tired of your apologies," Bill sighed, "I want _action. _You _have to start taking better care of yourself._"

"I will. I will, Bill. I promise."

Bill and Holden both decided to not tell Gunn of this... Incident. To both save Holden from the embarrassment, and quite possibly save his job, too.

The magic spell Holden seemed to cast over Ted Gunn was wearing thin. After the victory lap Atlanta brought, things were falling down in Holden's world. He'd been having nightmares, there'd been an increased amount of his panic attacks, the lack of eating, it was affecting not only his body, but his work. And with Louie Kaplan interview, Holden's stress levels were high.

So, his work started to crumble. It was little things at first, unsigned paperwork, a few jagged profiles that needed revision from Bill, Wendy or even Gregg, and now he suffered a heat stroke? On maybe one of the last interviews he'd be permitted to go on?

Now, that last part might've sounded too dramatic, but with how he was fucking so much up already, it wasn't too farfetched.

_You have to start taking better care of yourself. _

Bill's words rung in his ears. Gone was the destructive, _Keep it together. _It had been replaced. It had _to be _replaced, because it was true. Holden had to start getting a grip on his life. He was only thirty-one, far too young for his life to spiral out of control. That was more of a forty-five type of thing.

_You have to start taking better care of yourself. _

So he did. Holden started running, every morning, three miles. He started eating more, and eating better. Less junk like breads, and sugary snacks he devoured at his desk, and more lean meats and salads.

He started seeing his psychiatrist, Doctor Leo, as she preferred, more often, and for more reasons than just snagging some Valium. He opened up out his panic attacks, his lack of sleep-- which she suggested a sleeping aid to combat-- and how he felt like things were out of his control.

Doctor Leo gave him suggestions on how to manage in times of high-stress, such as; taking deep breaths and reminding yourself that you're okay, meditation a few times a week to help unwind after work, taking it slow and focusing on one task at a time, and lastly, _asking for help when help is needed._

So, he followed her instructions. At any time he was handed too much paperwork, or had too many profiles to conceive at once, Holden would stop, take a breath, and ask for help.

It was hard at first, admitting he needed help, but once he got over the initial fear of being mocked or ridiculed, it was easy.

Slowly, his work life was returning to it's prime. There were fewer mistakes to be looked over, less questionable profiles, and fewer feelings of failure.

For the first time in a long time, Holden felt _good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short lil fic so that my bb can be HAPPY


End file.
